


Bowing But Not Broken

by deklava



Series: The Man Who Beat Sherlock [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Angst, Enemas, F/M, Genderswap, Light BDSM, M/M, Pegging, Psychoanalysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:32:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Ian Adler fantasises about now is getting even with Moriarty and Moran. To bring his angry impulses under control, he undergoes a therapy that's not for the faint of heart. He can only hope that Sherlock will stay safe until his return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** chasingriver

“How long will you be gone, Sir?” Sherlock asks. He’s trying to sound nonchalant, and failing miserably.

“Just a week.” Using his ever-present clasp knife, Ian slices the rope harness off of the detective’s body. As the strands fall away, he admires the indented pattern left on that white skin.

Sherlock is quiet, which is so unusual for him that Ian feels compelled to speak.

“Look, if you need…distraction… during that time, Allen can set you up with Jeremy. I’ve been training him to be a Dom for a while now, and he’s the best student I’ve ever had.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I’ll be fine until you return, Sir.” He swallows. “I prefer a Master to a student.”

Fighting to keep his expression stern, Ian lays his palm on the back of the other man’s neck. “Kneel.”

Surprised but clearly pleased, Sherlock does.

“Look at me.”

Light grey eyes meet his.

“You will behave yourself while I am away. But should that be impossible, you will contact Allen and have him schedule a session with Jeremy. Which you WILL attend. Or I’ll beat you bloody when I return. Do you understand?”

The curly-haired detective catches his breath. A smile plays on his mouth as those words drain the tension from his body. “Yes, Sir.”

Ian strokes his hair. “You worry that something will happen to me, don’t you? Because Moriarty and Moran are still out there.”

Sherlock nods.

“I’ll be safe. Your brother appears to worry about my welfare as much as he does yours.”

It’s true: Ian is followed constantly. He’s gotten quite good at spotting Mycroft’s agents in Starbuck’s, at the bondage shop where he picks up his custom-made gear, in the lobby of the hotels where he makes outcalls. He’s sure that he’s even whipped, spanked, and fucked a few of them.

Sherlock doesn’t comment right away. Finally he says, “I suppose Mycroft’s meddling is occasionally useful.”

“In this instance, yes.” Ian goes over to his red velvet armchair, sits down, and picks up a thick leather paddle from a side table. “Now over my lap, you impatient pet. I’m going to make sure you think of me every time you sit down for the next week.”

Dropping to all fours, Sherlock crawls toward him a little too eagerly.

******

After the detective leaves with buttocks the colour of a midnight sky, Ian gives last-minute instructions to Allen and Jeremy. Then he hails a cab- he’s sure he’s seen the driver before, so the man must work for Mycroft –and asks to be taken to a Hampstead address. Once the car re-joins traffic, Ian unclenches his fists and shakes out the tension in his arms.

He’s been doing that a lot lately- manifesting anger in ways that are hell on his muscles as well as his spirit.

Which means that he needs to see Mira, and fast.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are references to Ian's Hebrew name- Yochanan- throughout the rest of this story. It's pronounced 'Yo-hannon'.

“I can feel the rage in you, Yochanan,” Mira says. She is also Jewish, and invariably addresses him by his Hebrew name. “You’re shedding it, like sparks.”

They’re in her office, which is dark and quiet. Degrees line the walls, confirming her qualifications as a therapist. But Ian is here because of the one credential that Mira has not gotten from Cambridge: she’s also a professional Dominant. Her desk drawers contain condoms, lube, and handcuffs as well as patient files, and the secretary wears a chastity belt under her pencil skirt.

London has hundreds of experienced psychotherapists, but she is the only one who can really help him. Because she lives the same lifestyle he does. She understands.

“Yes, I’m angry,” Ian admits. “I was assaulted and nearly murdered in my own house. I want to find those bastards and kill them.” He watches his fingers curl into fists again. “Instead of being grateful for having survived, I’m livid that they took me unawares.”

Mira leans forward in her leather swivel chair, emerald eyes narrowing. She is nearly fifty, but looks barely thirty. Her wavy red hair, tiny waist, and long legs give her a striking resemblance to a 1940s pin-up girl.

“You felt you should have had more control over the situation. The same way you control everything else that goes on in your house.”

Ian nods. “Objectively speaking, I know that there was nothing I could have done to prevent or stop it. But I still feel minimised. Emasculated, for want of a better word.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not unusual for successful Doms like yourself to believe they should be in control of everything at all times. It’s what our clients expect of us, isn’t it? When we punish and play with them, we easily forget that we have control only because it’s given to us. And what’s given can be taken away. By a safe word, for instance. Or an unexpected intrusion.”

“I know. But knowing and feeling are two different things for me right now.”

“Does Sherlock appear to think less of you?”

She knows about Sherlock because Ian told her, but she clearly doesn’t know what to make of the relationship. Nor does Ian, sometimes. The detective is not a client, nor is he a boyfriend. But they crave each other. The Man often wonders if there’s a word for what they are.

“No.” Ian’s throat tightens. “Not at all. If such an expression was in his vocabulary, he’d probably say that shit happens.”

“Then the issue is you. And your pride.”

“Basically, yes.” The Man laughs weakly. “Sounds so petty.”

“Perhaps. But you’ve come to me for help, so shall we begin?” She stands, her stiletto heels adding several inches to her already-impressive height. “You’re a great Dom, Yochanan. But when you leave in a week, you’ll be an even better one. You’ll be back in control- of yourself.”


	3. Chapter 3

When she tells him to kneel, he wants to scream at her. He feels like a miscast actor: every fibre in his body telling him that this is _all wrong_ , that kneeling on a floor to do anything but search for a missing object is not what he does, and hasn’t been for years. Only respect for the beautiful, hard-faced woman towering over him compels Ian to slide out of the chair and sink to the carpet.

Suddenly a week seems like a lifetime.

“You’re going to be an interesting challenge for me.” Mira circles him, arms crossed. “I could whip or paddle that stubborn pride out of you, or watch one of my pets do it, but you already know what pain is. It would simply be a test of endurance for you. What to do. Hmmm.”

Ian waits. He feels his blood pressure rising. It could mean a breakthrough.

Or a breakdown.

“Perhaps I should simply be honest,” she says, “and tell you what the sight of you at my feet makes me want to do to you.”

He looks up, intrigued by the slight waver in her voice. Mira appears ravenous: she’s even licking her lips. Bending over, she cups his jaw, long red nails dragging along the skin.

“I want to chip at that ridiculous shell until you remember that you’re human and fallible like the rest of us. I want to tie you so tightly that you bruise, I want you on the floor with your arse in the air, worrying about what I’m going to punish you with next, I want to force you to come when you’re riding my lovely rubber cock, and I want you to thank me for it all afterward.”

Ian shivers. He knows she intends to do all of it, and more. He hopes this will work. He _needs_ it to work.

Mira releases his jaw, leaving a burning ache where her nails dug deep, and leans against the arena-sized antique desk. Reaching down, she raises her leather skirt until it’s bunched around her waist, revealing onyx-studded black garters and a neatly trimmed pussy.

“Crawl over to me,” she orders.

He does, too riveted by her nudity to feel self-conscious or rebellious. _She looks like a goddess_ , he thinks as blood rushes to his cock. Perfect posture, flawless skin, legs long and sleek in their dark seamed stockings… she really does belong on a pedestal.

“That’s close enough. Kneel. Hands behind your back.”

Ian winces as his wrists cross at the small of his back. The last time they were in that position, he was tied to a chair and minutes away from a slashed throat. Before his thoughts can get too morbid, Mira grabs a fistful of his wavy black hair and pulls his mouth between her legs.

“Be a good boy and suck me off,” she hisses. “And do NOT touch yourself.”

His mounting discomfort subsides because this is something that he’s done frequently, and done well. As he begins to lick, he silently congratulates her ingenuity: she’s combined a position he finds disconcerting with an activity he enjoys and excels at. Confidence soaring, he slides his tongue between her wet folds, dragging it up until he’s at her clit. When he circles it before biting lightly, her thighs jerk and she pulls his hair so tightly that his eyes water.

“Naughty,” Mira says in a husky voice. “Carry on while I think of an appropriate punishment.”

Stiffening his tongue, he pushes it inside her, imagining how it must feel: wet and rough and warm. When he wiggles it, she cries out and her juices coat his face and drip down his chin, making his confidence soar and his ego kick in. She tastes dark and salty and hot, and _he’s_ the one who’s aroused her so much.

Suddenly she shoves him away. He knows what’s happening next- something he’s done himself to cocky submissives who think that having his dick in their mouth gives them power over him. Even if he wanted to pull back, he doesn’t have time before she sprays all over his face and chest, showering him with her essence.

Ian doesn’t have a mirror handy, but he can imagine what he looks like with her ejaculate trickling down his cheeks and chin and soaking his shirt. He’s so hard in his leather trousers that he has to clasp his hands together to keep them in place.

“I remember how much you love it when I bite,” he murmurs.

Once Mira catches her breath, she rolls down her skirt and gets up from the desk. “Hold your position and shut up,” she says, sounding annoyed. “I was right: you are going to be a challenge.”

Although he wants to, Ian doesn’t turn his head when he hears her rifling through a drawer behind him. He holds perfectly still when she closes the drawer at last, approaches him from behind, and presses a leather bit between his lips until he opens his mouth and lets her buckle it in place. His heart beats faster as he recalls how Moran roughly gagged him, but before the memory can intensify, she kneels behind him, presses her ample breasts against his back, and whispers in his ear.

“I know we used to shag each other silly, Yochanan, but right now I’m not your lover. Or fuck buddy. Or even your friend. I’m your Mistress.” One hand glides down to his hard cock and massages it. He groans and arches into the touch, Moran’s leering face disappearing from his present awareness. “I expect everything you say, everything you _do_ to reflect that while you’re here.”

He closes his eyes and listens to the whisper of leather as she hikes her skirt back up, using the hand that isn’t busy fondling him. Then her still-wet mound grinds against his arse and he bites the gag hard. He’s tempted to let his fingers slide lower, but refrains.

“You still have the most delicious arse,” Mira breathes. “I hope you cleaned yourself out before you came here.”

Ian nods once.

She cups his balls through the leather and squeezes. “What if I don’t believe you?”

That’s when he knows where they’re headed next.


	4. Chapter 4

She leaves him alone in her massive bathroom while she goes to change. Ian strips and folds his clothes, sighing in relief around the leather bit when his erection springs free. It’s red and wet and aching, but he knows the rules. He probably created half of them.

When he hears the door open, his heartbeat quickens. He should drop to his knees again: that’s what he requires of his own pets when he enters a room. But instead, he turns around slowly and faces her.

Mira is wearing a black lace robe, its sheerness leaving little to the imagination.  His eyes roam her body, taking in the still-firm breasts, flat stomach, and hips that have yet to show any middle-age spread. His cock twitches, making the beads of precome on the tip quiver. He wants her to take the robe off, let him see _everything_.

Like she used to.

“Not yet,” she says as she scrutinises him just as thoroughly. Ian knows he looks good: even self-professed straight men have ended up over his lap and in his bed. “Turn around. Hands above your head and on the wall.”

When he obeys, she approaches, bare feet padding on the heated red tiles. Then a loud crack rings in the warm air and pain explodes in his left buttock.

“You didn’t kneel when I came in,” she scolds, smacking the other cheek before biting the meaty muscle between his neck and left shoulder. “You know better than that, Yochanan.”

He does know. If Sherlock or another of his pets had been guilty of that transgression, he’d have blackened their arse with his heaviest paddle and left them tied in a corner with a vibrator buzzing away. But there’s a disconnect between knowing the rules and feeling obligated to follow them. It’s been too long since he submitted by choice, and the proper behaviour does not come naturally.

Mira doesn’t mind forcing it. She grabs his hair and yanks his head back, throwing the world off-kilter. Her other hand glides down his sweaty back until two fingers poke between his buttocks. He catches his breath as her nails lightly circle his hole, feeling both aroused and uncomfortable.

“You caught me at a bad time: I just had nail extensions applied. You’re going to have to prepare yourself. While I watch.”

He tenses, almost wishing that she’d threatened to beat him instead. He hates the thought of being so exposed, so _low_. But they both know that he won’t back down, no matter how embarrassed he becomes. This debasement is necessary to the process.

Mira releases him. “Turn around and kneel.”

He sinks to the tiles, keeping his head high.

“Shoulders down.”

As he assumes the position, she kicks his knees further apart. Ian feels his face redden. He imagines what he must look like, with his back arched and his cock and balls hanging heavily between his spread thighs. He’s been stripped of more than just his clothes: his pride has been temporarily discarded too.

Mira’s scarlet lips part in a smile.

“I think you’re finally understanding who’s in charge here. Aren’t you?” Bending down, she holds out a bottle of lube. “Give me your right hand.” When he does, she squirts a generous dollop of gel onto his fingers. “You have ten seconds, and I’m counting.”

He closes his eyes and reaches between his legs. His knuckles brush his cock, sending a burst of heat through his belly. She might have laughed, but he can’t hear her too well over the rushing tap water, which even _sounds_ cold.

Ten seconds isn’t a hell of a lot of time: he must remember to congratulate her on her sadism later. He pushes two slick fingers past the clenched ring of muscle, grunting at the stretch and sharp ache. It hurts, but he welcomes that. It chases away the humiliation and gives him something to overcome, making him feel strong again. Rotating his wrist, he spreads lube along his tight passage.

“Time’s up.”

He lowers his hand and holds onto the shower rug for dear life.

Feeling the thin rubber nozzle thread its way into his arse is almost anti-climactic. Its dimensions are negligible. Then he hears a pumping noise, followed by a nearly unbearable swelling in his rectum. His head flies off the rug and his eyes bulge.

_Fucking bitch! It’s a bulb nozzle!_

Frigid water pours into his bowel, making his belly swell and insides burn with cold. Despite his earlier resolve, Ian grunts in pain and tries to rise. Mira’s bare foot comes down on the back of his neck, holding him in place.

“That’s all the water,” she tells him. He can hear the grin in her voice, damn her. “You have to hold it for fifteen minutes. Unless you can’t, of course. There’s always your safety signal if you really must give in.”

The teasing challenge steadies his wavering stoicism. He groans and shifts, trying to lessen the pressure, but the water sloshes about, causing spasms to wrack his body.

“Stop fighting,” she scolds. “Hold still. Isn’t that what you tell your pets? The moment one stops fighting, freedom and pleasure are close at hand?”

He does tell them that. Sherlock in particular is especially fond of having his limits pushed. He closes his eyes again and recalls how euphoric the detective always looks after his wiry body has been pushed to the brink of endurance. Resting his forehead on his folded arms, he distracts himself from the pain by recalling their past sessions. Images of Sherlock bound to his bed, face and body covered with semen and bruises, makes his flagging cock stir back to life.

“Very good,” Mira finally says, taking her foot away. He sighs in relief as the bulb deflates and slides out of his aching hole. “Now up. And if you lose a drop of water anywhere except in the toilet, we’re starting over again.”

Ian rises slowly, grimacing at the cramps that accompany every move. After helping him stand, Mira removes the gag.

“I don’t think this will be necessary any longer. Do you?”

He shakes his head.

“Do what you have to and then shower. I’ll be in my chamber. I’m sure you remember where that is.”

He does. The memories make him harder.


	5. Chapter 5

Ian senses the psychological shift the moment he emerges from the bathroom. He hasn’t thought about Moriarty or Moran once during the past half-hour, which is major progress. As he pads down the hallway toward her room, he focuses on what’s waiting for him, not what’s been left behind.

Mira is reclining on her king-sized four-poster bed, the lace robe parted to expose her lean, naked body. She’s wearing a strap-on and caressing its slick length like it really is part of her. When she sees him, her tongue traces her lower lip.

“You look more rested. Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“I’m not thinking so much,” Ian answers. It’s true. He’s fixed his attention solely on her, on her next command. Everything else is temporarily at bay.

“Oh? Well, I am.” She rolls onto her side and props her head up with her right arm. “I’m thinking that I want you riding my prick now.”

Ian catches his breath as his gaze lowers to the dildo lying against her thigh. It’s not particularly thick, but it’s long. And it’s been _years_ since anything bigger than a couple of fingers or a prostate massager breached him.

“Come here,” she orders, sitting up.

If this is what she wants, he’ll do it. He trusts her, trusts the process she has put in place.

When he’s standing next to the bed, Mira says, “Turn around.”

Presuming that she wants to prepare him, he presents his back to her and starts to lean over. To his surprise, cold steel snaps around his wrists.

If she had done this half an hour ago, he would have been fighting off alarming memories of Moran digging rope into his tendons until they bled. He still tenses slightly, but he’s a _willing_ prisoner here. Nothing will be done to him that he doesn’t agree to.

“Good boy.” Her lube-slick hand caresses his back. “Now climb up and get on.”

After assisting him onto the tall bed, Mira lies on her back and shifts her hips, making sure that the clit stimulator in the harness is pressing against the right spot. When she holds the shaft at the base and beckons, Ian crosses the mattress on his knees and swings one leg over her hip. He nearly loses his balance, but she steadies him.

“You’re doing well, Yochanan.” She reaches around, grasping one of his buttocks and pulling it aside to expose his hole. When he feels the lubricated tip prod against the sensitive spot on his perineum, Ian gasps and leans forward. He’s now intensely, _painfully_ excited.

“ _Yes_ ,” she hisses, noting the pleasure that flashes across his features. After a bit more fumbling, she finds his opening and presses the toy against it. “Now relax and lower yourself slowly.”

He pushes back, gasping at the sharp stretch when the dildo head pops inside. Remembering how he breaches his pets, Ian waits until the discomfort has muted to a dull ache. Then he inhales deeply and slides lower upon exhaling, taking more of the toy into his body until his buttocks come to rest on her thighs.

Mira’s thumbs rub soothing circles around his hip bones. “Tell me how it feels.”

Ian rotates his pelvis. “Full,” he says at last, “but it’s good. I-”

A groan of pleasure interrupts his feedback. The dildo’s slightly ribbed surface has glided over his prostate, flooding his lower body with heat and intensifying the sex flush that’s been slowly creeping across his face and chest.  Beneath him, Mira arches her hips so that the clit stimulator rubs against her more aggressively.

“You’re so hot like this,” she gasps, reaching up to tweak his nipple. “If I’d known how delicious you’d look with a dick up your arse, I’d have done this while we were shagging regularly. Now ride me. If you get me off within sixty seconds, I’ll consider letting you come too.”

Ian bites his lip and starts moving. He’s careful to tilt his hips so that each forward thrust creates an exquisite pressure against her clit. His initial movements are slightly clumsy because of his pinioned wrists, but soon he finds his rhythm and starts riding her so hard that both of them groan loudly. Mira’s fingers find his buttocks and dig in, bruising the muscles.

“Fuck,” she chokes, drawing her shaking legs up. He can tell that she’s close, so he grinds against her clit, rubbing it the way he knows she likes. “You _diabolical_ little-”

Orgasm cuts her off in mid-shout, causing her to surge upward and nearly throw him off the bed. Ian braces his knees against the mattress to maintain his balance and continues to thrust, relishing the feel of his wet cock sliding across her belly. The dildo pistons back and forth across his prostate, making his muscles shake and the pressure in his cock and balls become unbearable. Another few seconds of this and he’s going to come all over her- without permission.

Mira’s eyes fly open. “I don’t think so,” she purrs, grabbing his waist. The world flips and the next thing he knows, he’s on his back and she’s pounding into him, palms planted on the mattress to keep her upper body raised and out of firing range. Without losing her sadistic smile, she torments his prostate with deep and vicious jabs until his eyes are watering and he’s biting into his lip to avoid begging.

“I never figured you to be one who revels in suffering.”

Ian shakes his head on the pillow. He can’t speak, or all he’ll do is plead for release.

“Ask me, Yochanan. Ask for what you want.”

His fingers twist the duvet into damp bunches. _No!_

“Stop fighting me.”

“I’m not fighting you,” he rasps. “I’m fighting myself.”

She lifts one palm off the mattress long enough to slap him across the face. Hard. The shock disables him long enough for a deeper need to smash through his pride and take over. No, he’s not in charge now and fuck _yes,_ he needs to come.

“Please,” he groans just before the dam breaks. “May I come?”

“Yes!” Mira drives into him harder. Lube spills out of the tight seal between her cock and his hole and flows down his arse crack. “Let yourself go!”

She might have said more, but all Ian is conscious of is the blinding orgasm that makes his body jerk and dance and, in effect, signals the first step in his genuine surrender. As his sphincter clenches around the dildo and semen strikes his face and chest, he wonders briefly where his control went, and is surprised to find that he doesn’t care.


	6. Chapter 6

During the days that follow, Ian gradually unwinds like a spring that’s been coiled too tightly for too long. Each morning Mira introduces something that disturbs his comfort zone, but not beyond the point that he can bear without snapping.

He has to admit that she is both fast and effective. Before coming to her house, he’d requested that only her female pets attend him or apply restraints: a masculine hand touching him or closing steel around his wrists would have sent him into a rage. But on day five, he calms enough to enjoy a romp on her huge bed with a deliciously shy American youth who seems in awe of him. As a reward for good behaviour on the morning of day seven, Mira asks Ian to help her train the young man, who wants to try fisting. Clad in leather once more and watching their plaything squirm and clamp down around his wrist, Ian feels like himself again at last.

*****

That evening, after dinner (which he is allowed to eat at the table instead of having it fed to him), Mira sips a glass of port and studies him.

“You should be so proud, Yochanan. I put you through your definition of hell all week and you’re glowing.”

“Trial by fire is good for anyone. Mira, I can’t thank you enough.”

“You’re very welcome.” She puts the glass down and stands. “If you’ve finished, I’d like to give you a reward. A graduation present, of sorts.”

Ian stands too. He’s been suspecting all evening that she has something special planned: instead of the elegant gowns she normally dons for dinner, she’s wearing leather trousers and a sleeveless black shirt. Even her hair is tied back in a strict ponytail. As he follows her into the hall, she adds, “It just arrived this morning. Believe me, I looked everywhere for it. Fortunately, I inquired in the right places and was able to call in some favours.”

“Oh?” Ian’s calm expression masks his intrigue. “Let me guess: a virgin over eighteen?”

She giggles. “I’m not a miracle-worker.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Oh, Yochanan. Keep that up and I’ll be giving you my arse tonight.”

“Stop.” He’s only half-kidding. “These trousers are too tight to accommodate an erection.”

“I know.”

They go downstairs, which is all cold stone and dim lighting. He remembers that she uses it for clients who get off on prison or dungeon settings. At the end of the main corridor, two husky male slaves stand on either side of a closed door. When they see their Mistress, both kneel.

“Is our guest as uncomfortable as possible?” she inquires.

Ian’s brow furrows. Guest? Uncomfortable?

“Yes, Madam,” one answers.

“Very good. Master Adler and I will take it from here. Go upstairs and clean my chamber.”

Both men light up at the rare privilege and head for the stairs. When they’re gone, Mira unhooks the heavy key ring from her belt and eyes Ian speculatively.

“You owe me big time for this,” she says before unlocking the door and swinging it open. The pale hall light pours into the darkened room, revealing a bruised Sebastian Moran bound to a chair.

******

Ian’s heart gallops and blood roars in his ears. He is unable to believe what he is seeing.

“Dear God,” he whispers.

Moran appears to be just as stunned: the muscular villain’s eyes widen and his Adam’s apple bobs beneath the tape that seals his mouth. The furious glare that he assumed when the door opened now morphs into an expression of genuine fear.

“I don’t believe introductions are necessary,” Mira says. “But something tells me that you both have some catching up to do.”

Ian doesn’t take his eyes off the other man. He has questions scrambling about in his head like trapped birds, the most urgent one being: _Where is Moriarty?_ But all he can manage is “How?”

Mira crosses her arms. “Mr. Moran gets bored when his other half is busy elsewhere, it seems. Bored enough to act like a drunken fool in a club where my dearest friends are regulars, and where I happened to be drinking the most delightful Cosmopolitan. He ruined the experience for me, so I warmed him up a bit for you this morning.”

Adrenaline continues to pulse throughout Ian’s body, scorching his blood and making him feverish. He’s not afraid: Sebastian Moran can’t hurt anyone right now, only _be_ hurt.

It’s only when his face muscles feel uncomfortably tight that Ian realises he is smiling.

He sees a table in the shadows to Moran’s right. The lighting is poor, but he can still make out neatly arranged rows of whips, clamps, canes, and ominous-looking metal instruments with sharp edges. Almost immediately, his palms start to itch.

“I’ll leave you two alone.” Mira uncrosses her arms and prepares to leave. She doesn’t warn Ian to control himself, indicating that she trusts him to not turn her house into a murder scene. “Will half an hour be sufficient?”

“Perfectly,” Ian answers. He’s privately decided that he’ll text Mycroft Holmes as soon as his revenge is complete and invite the government official to collect Moran for future interrogation. As for Mira, he’s now convinced that her name is short for ‘Miracle’ instead of Miryam.

When she departs, Ian walks into the room, his king-sized shadow looming over the large man now cowering in the chair. He picks up a pair of butter-soft black leather gloves from the table and slides them on. As his fingers trail lovingly over the array of toys, he says, “I won’t ask you if you’ve been wicked, Mr. Moran, because the answer is obvious.”

Moran tries to look brave, but his waxy complexion betrays him.

“Don’t be self-conscious. I’m wicked too. In fact, that’s how I make my living. As you’re about to find out.” Inspired, he turns around. “Most people pay for the privilege of my attention and time. Consider yourself fortunate that I won’t be charging you.” A pause. “Or killing you.”

Moriarty will be next, Ian vows as he selects an implement that always reminds him of Sherlock.

“Let’s start with the riding crop.”


End file.
